A Friend Indeed, Take Your Hand in Mine
by goctyudicbdkvhb175749674
Summary: Ivan scared everyone. However, everyone scared Ivan more. Why? Because his own parents abused him. Ivan's parents terrified him; they terrified him to the very core. Then, Yao came, and suddenly, Ivan didn't feel so scared anymore. High School AU - RoChu
1. Too Easy, But I'm Really Scared

**IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE/WARNING:** **This fanfic contains** **themes and possible future descriptions of physical and emotional abuse. If you are triggered or generally upset by reading about abuse, reader's discretion is advised.**

 **Chapter 1: Too Easy; But I'm Really Scared**

* * *

He was scary, and he knew it.

He terrified people with just a glance, and he, although he found it quite unpleasant, accepted that.

What most failed to realize, however, was that he, most of all, had most reason to be very, very, quite, extremely afraid.

Yes, he scared his classmates, so much so that no one dared talk to him.

And to that, to make up for such a fact, Ivan's parents absolutely, positively, undoubtedly terrorized him.

Indeed, Mother and Father scared Ivan to the very core.

They always will.

* * *

Ivan, admittedly, hid it well. Too well, in fact.

Bruises on his neck, he'd cover with his scarf. The tears on his face, they wiped away so easy. Too easy. It was so much easier to hide it than it should have been. Black eyes could be explained away no problem. No teacher even turned back their head in concern. Fuck. This is too easy. Far, far too easy for what it's worth. Someone, please, just give a damn.

. . .

Hiding abuse is too easy for Ivan's tastes.

. . .

Be it physical, or emotional, or other forms he did not even want to think of, Ivan found hiding the fact that his parents abused him - actually, no; they didn't abuse him; they pummeled him, and belittled him, and told him that he was a waste of space and air and time and life, which, by the way, got to Ivan more than it should've - far, far too easy.

 _Ivan's a waste of good air._

Ivan wanted to cry, but he did not.

Ivan wanted to scream to the world that his own damn parents abused and hit and neglected and hurt him - hurt him in so many ways that he didn't dare list them all - yet he could not.

Ivan wanted for everyone, wanted for the world to know, that Mr. Braginsky is a monster; however, they don't know that.

Quiet, quiet; hush, hush.

Hushed, and quieted, and silent Ivan's secret remained, and as much as it pained him, Ivan kept it that way. Whether for the protection of the two people he hated the most, or for his own safety, he did not know.

Stay at school for as long as possible; hide from Father when he's drunk as quickly as possible. Ivan lived by that motto, for such a saying had saved his life, multiple times over.

Fists hurt more when the person punching you, uninhibitedly, is drunk off their ass. Ivan's father is a big man; a big, scary man who can knock the life out of his own son with a single blow, and Ivan held the vague awareness that one day, a punch too hard could off him.

Stay out of the way; stay quiet; don't tell anyone; quiet, quiet; hush, hush.

Silently, quietly, terrifyingly, Ivan sat after school hours in the art room, pencil grating his paper and equations struggling to hit the page. After all, Ivan found worrying about Calculus quite difficult, and found his mind quite hazy, when he had not eaten breakfast or lunch; hopefully that half pack of ramen would still be there in the evening. Hopefully Mama and Papa would be out, or unconscious on the couch, or far, far, far away from the house so that Ivan did not have to smell the disgusting vodka on his way through the front door.

However, for the meanwhile, Ivan stared half-heartedly at his math paper, and he continued, albeit hesitantly, his Calculus.

Since, you know, being scolded at by your teacher for not finishing your homework makes everything drunk Father said about you true, as a form of sick, twisted validation, and now Ivan was here, sitting in a damn art room during his Junior year of high school, miserable as can be and not even a friend to confide in.

* * *

Scarf; check.

Jacket; check.

Gloves; check.

Boots; cheek.

A scarf to hide the hand-shaped strangle-marks around Ivan's neck.

A jacket to hide the new gashes on his arms.

A pair of gloves to hide his thin, bony fingers.

Boots to hide the fact that he was in desperate need for a new pair of shoes.

Boots last longer than shoes, so why wear shoes when your parents haven't bought you any for a solid two years?

As Ivan went out the front door, into the winter outside, Ivan mentally ran through his checklist, his checklist more for other people than for himself, to make sure that everything seemed fine and dandy and swell at home. He almost hoped that if he pretended that his parents didn't regularly beat the shit out of him, perhaps they actually didn't. Perhaps they wouldn't. Perhaps they'd stop. Perhaps it would just all be a bad dream, and Ivan would eventually wake up, in a safe, warm bed, and realize that he had parents who actually loved him.

Gosh, Ivan realized. He realized that he was looking kind of thin now. His backpack pressed against his shoulder bones more than they used to. He felt his face. He cheeks were kind of hollow, and the ridge of his nose was more pronounced than it ought to be, and he hiked his scarf further up his face, to his nose, when he realized that he had a busted lip.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Wobbly feet crunched through the snow with great uncertainty.

It was cold.

It's cold when you're wearing only a jacket, with not even a shirt underneath, in the snow.

Ivan crossed and rubbed his arms, and his head bowed slightly as a chill ran up his spine. He would have worn a wool hat, but his had so many holes that wearing it would attract more concern than not. The last thing Ivan needed was a concerned adult over his shoulder. He could take care of himself; he was sure of it.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

The crunching of snow made Ivan cringe, for to Ivan's ears, they sounded like the crunching of beer bottles.

Smash. Crash. Plunk.

Ivan almost screamed when he heard a ball being tossed then caught. It sounded like heavy fists pounding the door. Over and over and over the ball would go, thrown, like how mindlessly the house decorations were tossed around and smashed and knocked over and thrown. At Ivan.

It must have looked strange. He must have looked crazy. But Ivan ran, ran like a madman to school.

With snow being kicked up behind his battered boots and his hands clamped around the straps of his backpack, Ivan ran, ran as hard as he could through the snow.

Too much was the sound of that ball being half-haphazardly tossed by children who, hopefully, knew not the horrors of being punched for just existing.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. You better not cry, goddammit! Fuck, fuck, fuck, you're sobbing your eyes out! Goddammit! Crying your eyes out while you run through a snowfield because of a fucking ball! Dammit! Dammit! Goddammit! Christ! Running through a fucking snowfield, because of a fucking ball, because Ivan's fucking parents don't even care enough to not beat the shit out of their actual son. Their only son and only child.

Running and heaving and crying, Ivan, in a frantic frenzy, ran all the damn way to school, and all the while he heard his heart in his ears, and his head pounded with all sorts of unpleasantness, and his lungs felt so strained that Ivan feared that they'd burst.

Finally, finally, finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he neared the school's entrance and almost painfully, he skidded to a stop, his eyes still red and puffy. With a rough, severely worn glove, he gave his face a harsh, single wipe. He wiped away the tears easy. Too easy.

* * *

Whispers. And stares. And fear. He didn't know why; he didn't know what he'd done; but for one reason or another, his mere presence, in an instant, mortified just about everyone in the room. Maybe he was insulting them, or maybe the Americans found Russians intimidating, or maybe the small smile he always wore on his face was actually far creepier than he'd initially anticipated. For whatever reason, the school had decided for Ivan to be their black sheep, and for whatever reason, everyone had decided to give Ivan a hard time making friends.

Ivan presumed his lack of friends to be for the best, though. With friends, comes secrets to confide with each other in, and the secret within Ivan's heart, the secret pain and isolation and heartache, Ivan kept under strict lock and key. That was why he hid. That was why he hid the fact that he was abused at home so damn well. No one could know, for Ivan was scared for someone to know, more so than he feared anything his parents could ever dream of doing to him.

Down the hallway Ivan walked.

Someone screamed, and fainted another, and a petrified student jumped out of Ivan's way, but no one, no one in the room except for Ivan, knew that Ivan, most of all, had the greatest, grandest reason to be afraid.

Knees shaking. Hands trembling. Bottom lip quivering out of pure terror. All eyes on Ivan, and he had accepted it, but that didn't mean that he liked it. Stares and stares and more stares bore into his soul, bore into him deeper than he was capable of handling.

A tenseness in his chest, and Ivan took it as the cue to leave. Ivan didn't like the fact that he gave practically every person he interacted with a fright, but honestly, he didn't know how scared shit-less he'd be if someone had actually given him a chance.

. . .

Ivan scared everyone.

. . .

But everyone scared Ivan more.

. . .

Then, it happened.

It happened during lunch break, a lunch break Ivan spent in the library because he had no lunch.

Ivan sat, a book under his gaze, which did not prove to be an unusual sight. The librarian always questioned Ivan on why he was always at the library rather than eating lunch, but he simply smiled, and told her that he had lunch later during the day at home. Listen, okay? He wasn't telling a complete lie, but, dear reader, one could say that his explanation had wandered quite a bit from the truth. In all honesty he wanted so, so, so badly to just tell the nosy yet perceptive librarian, and to have his parents locked away so that they couldn't hurt anyone else for at least a while, and then he'd actually have some peace for once. But, however tempting, he didn't. He wouldn't; he couldn't; but he would, for now, agree to the keeping of his mouth shut.

"Allo?"

Ivan jumped and nearly fell out of his chair from the voice.

Ivan turned around. He was used to turning around because at home, turning around was usually what saved him from getting smashed in the face with a flower vase.

Fighting the urge to close his eyes, put his hands over his ears, and dive groundhog-style underneath the table, Ivan forced himself to look at the person who had decided to say hello.

"Is this seat taken?" the person asked.

Said person - said admittedly mildly handsome person - had long black hair tied into a ponytail, brown eyes, and pale skin, and he wore a red t-shirt and jeans. Ivan took note of the the long sleeves that this black-haired person didn't have to wear, because this person in front of Ivan had no bruises or scars or scratches to hide. It sounded, maybe, kind of messed up, but Ivan felt jealous.

"Allo? Is this seat taken?" the person asked again, this time with an edge of irritation to his voice.

Ivan didn't allow himself to react to an irritation which normally meant more harm to his being, mostly at the hands of Dad, but Ivan, as difficult as it was, pushed a, "No," from his mouth.

"Mind if I sit here?" This mildly handsome person also spoke with a mild Chinese accent.

Ivan shook his head.

And so, this black-haired, bruise-free, pale-skinned person pulled out a seat next to Ivan, a Mandarin textbook in his small yet not dangerously thin hand, and plopped down next to him.

"Pork bun?" the Mandarin-textbook-wielding-mildly-handsome-black-haired-bruise-free teenager offered.

Tempting, but Ivan shook his head no. He didn't want to be a bother.

"Alright. They're there if you want some."

Silence, before the person next to Ivan turned to him and asked, "What's your name?"

Ivan almost didn't know how to react. In fact, he almost didn't react at all. He almost just turned away and reburied his head into the book he was pretending to read.

However, the powers that be somehow, someway, kicked Ivan's name out of his lips before he even had time to react.

"Ivan. And yours?" Out came the three words.

"I'm Yao."

And holy shit, when Ivan looks back on this very moment, he's so, so fucking glad that somehow, someway, that day, he had said three fucking words. Because those three simple fucking words changed his life.


	2. Bao - Your Smile is as Warm as the Sun

**Chapter 2: Bao; Your Smile is as Warm as the Sun**

 **Baozi/Bao - a type of dumpling-like Chinese bun commonly eaten in China, Vietnam, the Philippines, and other Asian countries.**

* * *

"Take one, I insist."

Why wasn't Yao scared of Ivan?

"Are you sure?"

Why wasn't Ivan, as he talked to Yao, completely stricken with terror?

"Yeah, my mom packed me with more than I know what to do with."

Ivan suddenly had food.

Yao was gone now, whisked away so suddenly that Ivan could barely comprehend it, and as of current, Ivan sat in the library, alone, a pork bun in hand. Yao had even given him a napkin.

For a while Ivan stared at the bun, he himself in a state of near disbelief.

He had food?

A part of Ivan didn't want to believe it.

He had food.

Such a simple fact shook his world of inner despair so violently that it nearly made him sick.

He wasn't used to this. He hadn't eaten lunch in so long that once he had one in his hands, he honest to God didn't know what in the damn world to do with it. Even though he most certainly needed to eat it before it spoiled or got damaged or possibly lost, Ivan somewhat didn't want to. He wanted to cherish the pork bun, to give it some sort of attention before he had to consume it, but at the same time so fiercely did hunger boil in his stomach that he wanted nothing more than to take a bite.

So, he did only what any reasonable person being severely abused - by his own parents nonetheless - would do: he decided to compromise.

He'd eat half of the bun now, and he'd eat the other half for dinner, along with that hopefully still there half-packet of ramen.

Ivan found it quite, very, extremely odd to have something extra to peck on, but he couldn't help but smile sadly.

Taking a small, almost fantastical bite, Ivan thoroughly enjoyed his pork bun - which was, admittedly, the most delicious thing he'd eaten in probably years. He felt giddy in a way, as if this pork bun alone could fix every single one of his problems. His high of happiness only lasted but a while, but for that while, Ivan took it, and enjoyed it, and fully savored every flavor, for when you've been starved of nectar, honey tastes so fucking sweet.

If Ivan prayed, he would've prayed not to God, but to Yao.

* * *

Next day came, and Ivan, as per usual, spent lunch in the library.

"Here."

Ivan jolted his head up, and, despite being at school and not at home, he was somewhat anticipating a slap to the face. Hopefully, the expression of a wince he gave had not been too obvious.

"Hmm?" Ivan was confused, but then he found himself face to face with Yao again.

"It's red bean this time."

Another bun made its way from Yao's hand to Ivan's.

"Why?" Ivan asked, more to himself than to Yao. What in the world had Ivan done to deserve the unspeakable luxury of decent food? Why did Ivan deserve the unspeakable luxury of decent food? The question span around in Ivan's head. Round and round and round it went, tormenting him with the idea the maybe, perhaps, possibly, probably, he didn't deserve to happy, or fed, or loved.

 _Ivan, you don't deserve love. Especially the love of Mom and Dad._

"My mom gave me too many buns again," Yao replied. "I thought that you'd want one."

It was then Ivan registered that Yao had _extra_ food. _Regularly._ Yao could eat regularly. Yao didn't have to worry about his next meal, or whether the fridge had all alcohol and no food, but he did get to worry about having _extra_ food. Again, Ivan was jealous, jealous of something that should have been normal.

"Are you sure?" Ivan didn't know what to say. Lunch? Two days in a row? Holy shit. This was new.

 _Ivan's a waste of food._

"Yeah. No harm in it, right? Well, unless you're allergic to red bean." Yao chuckled dryly, and Ivan smiled in return. Not the small smile which typically adorned his face, but the tiniest of soft chuckles.

"Thank-you, then." Ivan did his best to hide the sky-high eagerness in his tone of voice.

"Mind if I sit down with you again?" Yao inquired.

"No problem at all." Ivan looked at Yao, and Yao looked at Ivan, and their eye-contact unbroken all the way, Yao sat down in the chair next to Ivan's. The Mandarin textbook from yesterday had been replaced by Shakespeare's _Othello._

They sat in silence. Ivan couldn't think of anything to say, and Yao only gave him the occasional glance from behind his book.

Lunch ended soon after that, and like yesterday, they both, for that day, parted ways.

* * *

Things continued on like that. Ivan would go to the library, as always, and Yao would give him a bun, as always. What Ivan found the most solace in, though, was not the buns Yao gave him, but the fact that he didn't find Yao scary. However, the buns were indeed a nice added bonus.

Library. Yao. Bun.

Library. Yao. Bun.

Library. Yao. Bun.

Day after day, Ivan's life occurred in that order, for Yao and his Chinese buns were the only thing that Ivan wanted to remember. They were the only things that Ivan found worth even paying mind to, because the rest of the day, from his waking up; to dull-as-the-fucking-beige-wall Physics class; to coming home and finding his father angry, bottle of vodka already in hand ready to smash over Ivan's head; to crying himself to sleep at night - wait, he wasn't supposed to tell you that - was blurry. It was blurry. It was bad. It made Ivan really, really sad.

Ivan didn't want to remember the rest of the day.

Ivan didn't even want to consider the time that passed without Yao and his buns. Yao didn't bring Ivan much joy - yet - but for the small amount he did bring, Ivan took it, and cherished it, and protected it with his life.

"This one has a quail egg in it."

Ivan looked up, and he smiled.

There stood Yao, a bun in his outstretched palm.

Ivan took the bun into his own hand, as usual.

Yao sat down next to Ivan, as usual.

They spent the time in peaceful, harmonious silence, as usual.

Suddenly, something unusual happened.

Yao had decided on just a little dabble of small-talk.

"Ivan, why do you always eat only half of your bun?"

Ivan froze. His eyes went wide, his mouth hanging just as he was about to bite into the bun.

His mind scrambled for something, anything. An explanation? An excuse? He couldn't just be all like, _"Oh, it's nothing. My parents just abuse and neglect me, and since you're my only reliable source of, you know, food, I try to make the bun last for as long as I can."_

Stumbling, fumbling, begging, sweating, fighting, on the inside he was crying. Ivan spun and span and tempted he was to run. He almost ran. He almost flew out of the chair faster than a bird, with more force than a lion, containing more fear in his being than a runaway deer.

His face paled as his heart wailed.

Slowly, hesitantly, tentatively, Ivan turned, feeling as if he was about to get hurt, and taking the words out of his brain and forcefully shoving them out his throat and into the air, he said, "Oh, it's just that I save half to eat after school. They're quite tasty."

The words that came out of his mouth felt vile because of how wrong they were.

To Ivan's surprise, Yao looked satisfied.

No questions?

No reservations?

No accusations?

A part of Ivan died on the inside, almost disappointed that Yao didn't suspect a thing, not a thing at all.

Silent was the rest of the lunch period.

Silent was Ivan's secret.

Silent was Ivan.

* * *

"I brought two for you today."

Ivan looked up, and he looked at Yao, and he must have looked like he'd witnessed Yao grow a second head.

Ivan didn't know what to say. He didn't know if he even could say anything. He was shocked. Completely, totally, irreversibly shocked, no matter how much he refused to show it.

"Oh, um." Ivan sounded like a complete and utter fool to himself. He, due to his state of mild shock, practically had to drag the words out of his brain. "You didn't have to."

"Well, I told my mom that you like them, so she packed you some, too," Yao explained.

"They didn't have to." Yao's mom is so normal.

"They did, though." Yao's mom is so nice.

"Really?" Yao's mom is so willing to look after her son.

"Yep. Enjoy." Compared to Ivan's parents, Yao's mom is a literal, actual saint.

"Your mom is so nice. And thank-you, for the buns." For all his thoughts, for all his turmoil, for all his pain, Ivan was only barely able to mutter a thank-you, a thank-you that could not even contain or convey a gram of his gratitude.

 _"Thank-you for actually talking to me, Yao,"_ Ivan wanted to say.

" _Thank-you for giving me food, and a chance, when my own parents won't,"_ screamed Ivan's mind.

 _"Thank-you for treating me like a human."_ That thought collided with Ivan like a train.

"It's nothing." Yao smiled. He smiled at Ivan. "My mom is a nice people, and I really love her, but she always thinks that I'll starve to death if I miss even one meal."

Ivan nodded. Yao had no fucking clue how lucky he was.

For all the suffering he'd endured, Ivan could only manage to spit out a simple question. "Hey, I know that people call them buns in English, but what are they actually called?"

At that, Yao's face fluttered into a gentle grin. As he sat down, he told Ivan, "In Mandarin, they're called baozi."

"Baozi?" Ivan repeated.

Yao chuckled.

"What?" Ivan looked at Yao with suspicion.

"Just the way you say it, it's so funny," Yao replied. At this point, Yao looked like he was about to laugh his ass off. "It sounds so wrong, but so cute, too!"

"Well, can you teach me, then? How to say it correctly?" Ivan asked, almost rhetorically. Never in a million years could he ever imagine that such a simple question could derail so much of his current, albeit shitty, life situation.

"I could try." Yao gave Ivan a playful smirk.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, Mandarin is already hard enough to learn for an English speaker, and your Russian accent makes it sound even funnier."

"You think I'm funny?"

"Hilarious."

"That's not nice."

Yao didn't say anything at that. He just planted his elbow on the table, rested his head on his hand, and looked at Ivan with a smile.

That was when Ivan realized that he'd never, ever, ever, ever seen his parents smile, not even once, at him.

However, he found Yao's smile as beautiful as a flower. As Bright as a star. As warm as the sun.


	3. Groceries - Thanks for the Ice Cream

**Chapter 3: Groceries - Thanks for the Ice Cream**

* * *

Around a month into them knowing each other, Ivan and Yao had started actually conversing, and about two months in, they'd meet in the library every single day, and every single day Yao would give Ivan a bao. Then, they'd talk.

Ivan and Yao talked a lot now.

They talked and talked and talked and talked and talked about anything and everything. They chatted each other up and down about the weather, or they complained about the AP Physics teacher and all her glorious dullness, or Yao would give Ivan bun recipes, even though Ivan knew that he'd never have the opportunity, or finances, to use them.

In fact they'd talk so much, chat up such a storm, be so engrossed into conversation, that sometimes they missed the bell, and as soon as Yao realized the time he'd quickly bid farewell, then dart off to class, fast as a songbird. Ivan would lumber behind with little concern for being on time, because his parents paid too little attention to him to worry about whether he was late to class or not.

Besides, they'd be pissed at him for one reason or another anyway.

Ivan was lost, but in a good way. Yao's words were like a whirlwind that picked Ivan up and lifted his spirit. Ivan would be blown away, his mind being opened and stretched and exploded by his and Yao's conversations. They were so much fun, and Yao never yelled or snapped at him, and Ivan could say whatever he wanted to say without having a vodka bottle being thrown at him.

Entranced, amazed, and delighted, all day every day Ivan couldn't wait for his and Yao's lunch conversations, and today was seldom an exception.

"This one has mung bean paste in it."

Yao sat down, and out from his lunchbox he pulled a bun. Yao smiled as Ivan looked at it hungrily, and he gently set the bun into Ivan's hands.

Ivan unwrapped the bun, put it up to his mouth, and took a big, heaping bite.

"You like it?" Yao asked. Then he shrugged sheepishly. "You could say that it's a bit of an acquired taste."

"Not my favorite, but still good," Ivan replied. In all honesty, though, he didn't give a damn if the bun was filled with fucking pickled garlic cloves and expired prunes; by the time Yao and lunch got to him, he'd been starving.

Ivan's parents had been going through a "rough patch", again, so even less food was in the cupboards now.

In fact Ivan could dare say that Yao and his baozi buns were somewhat keeping him alive.

After biting into the mung bean bun, the hunger-induced dizziness he had previously felt was now gone, at least for an hour, but that hour was good enough for Ivan. He felt lucky to have food in his stomach at all, really, so he continued on with little complaint and little inclination that Yao suspected a thing.

They sat in silence for about ten minutes, with Yao going over piles of notes and countless textbook chapters while Ivan simply looked on and nibbled on his bun. Most people would have found such a silence uncomfortable. However, Ivan greatly enjoyed the quietness and lack of fear within the air, and he noticed how easy it was to eat in a calm, non-abusive environment, he himself finding great irony in the fact that such a calm observation had only come due to years of abuse and neglect.

"Aye-ya!" Yao exclaimed suddenly. It made Ivan snicker because Yao sounded so cute when he said that.

"What is it?" Ivan asked once he'd stopped laughing. Anything Yao said could make him laugh; anything Yao said was an absolute delight.

Yao sighed, comically set his head down on the table, and turned to Ivan with tired eyes. Yao looked exhausted. His hair seemed to have fallen out of its normal ponytail. He appeared a bit paler than usual. Even the way he had given Ivan the bun was a glaring display to his lack of energy.

Yao didn't say anything for a while. He was just groaning slightly from his head-down position on the table, and as Ivan continued to eat his bun, he looked on in concern. Had something happened?

"What's wrong? You look tired." Ivan dared to prod Yao with his finger, and after a solid minute Yao finally flipped himself over so that his head was resting on its side. He looked Ivan dead in the eyes, and their hollowness honestly scared him.

 _Did Ivan do something wrong? He probably did. He always does something wrong._

"I'm just stressed, that's all. Guess I shouldn't have waited until now to study for finals, huh?"

Ivan nodded in sympathy. He understood Yao's stress since final exams were next week, and Yao was taking a mind-boggling six AP classes, too. He then proceeded to give Yao's head a gentle pat, and he leaned in close, almost as if getting a better look of Yao would make him less tired.

Neither said anything for a bit, as without Yao's ability to crutch the conversation, Ivan couldn't think of anything to say, and his thoughts started to wander.

He looked at Yao, and as he gingerly scratched the other boy's head as a gesture of comfort, a thought struck him.

Ivan softly turned Yao's head to get a better look of his face, and look he did at the pale skin and eye-bags and black messy hair. Ivan continued petting and stroking and running his hand through Yao's silky hair, his fingers quite very much enjoying its softness and color and everything about it, really.

Finally, after what felt like the longest time, Ivan managed to add something into the pool of words floating around him and Yao.

"You look like a panda."

At first, Yao didn't say anything, and Ivan assumed that Yao either didn't hear or didn't have the heave left in him to reply.

However, after about thirty seconds, Yao jolted his head around and turned away from Ivan's gaze.

"Yao?"

Ivan stretched his head around so that he could better see Yao's face.

What Ivan saw absolutely shocked him, but not in a bad way.

There, with his eyes looking at the other side of the table as if it was the most interesting thing in the world, Yao's face had turned red as a tomato.

And he looked fucking adorable.

Yao didn't say anything, at first. He just sat there, eyes wide and face red, and Ivan chuckled at how funny Yao looked at the moment.

"I haven't been called that since I was five," Yao muttered at last. He sounded like a child whose mother had just embarrassed him.

"But you do look like a panda." Ivan continued to tease. He realized that he'd hit a sore nerve.

"Don't call me that! It's embarrassing!" Yao whined as he hid his face in the sleeves of his jacket.

"What's so embarrassing about being cute, though?" Ivan questioned. Ivan himself had never been called cute before, much less been compared to a panda. Why did this embarrass Yao so much? Ivan surely felt more embarrassed that he'd never been called cute or adorable before, even as a child, than Yao ever could have felt about being called the exact same thing.

Yao's face reddened even more, if that was even possible, and Ivan just scooted closer so that his nose nearly pressed right up against Yao's flushing cheeks.

"You're so adorable," Ivan told him with a genuinely delighted smile. "And, you look less tired than you were before, too."

"Yeah, thanks a million," Yao sarcastically retorted.

"Panda," Ivan snickered playfully.

"Oh, stop it," Yao bit back. His cheeks had returned to normal, and even though he was telling Ivan to stop calling him that, Yao looked to be on the verge of laughing.

"Panda," Ivan continued.

Yao appeared to have bitten his tongue in an attempt to stave off the laughter.

Ivan smiled.

"Panda."

That did it. Yao threw his head back, but because they were in the library he restrained himself with louder than average giggles rather than quieter than average laughs. Yao's shoulders trembled, the widest grin spreading across his face.

Yao's face turned red again, but this time not due to embarrassment.

Finally, Yao calmed down, and he looked noticeably livelier than just about a minute ago.

"Thanks; I needed that." Yao turned to Ivan, his face not contorted in laughter but now with a sweet, genuine smile.

"No problem," Ivan replied, his heart fluttering because he found Yao's laugh absolutely, positively, fantastically perfect. Every laugh, every smile, everything, about Yao was, is, magic.

Yao settled himself, but this time he didn't groan when he set his eyes back on the textbooks.

He then turned to Ivan, and Ivan couldn't help but notice how wide and bright Yao's eyes had become. Ivan held his breath, for he knew what that wide-eyed, bright look meant. He knew that Yao was thinking of something, and Ivan didn't want to interrupt.

He waited. Yao was Ivan's only friend, so therefore Ivan found himself being more patient than he was ever used to being.

A moment, a minute, and an eye flicked later, Yao looked at Ivan with an expression of excitement but also begging.

"Hey, Ivan, finals are coming up next week, yeah?" Yao asked rhetorically.

Ivan didn't know where this conversation was headed, so he could only nod his head in yes.

A second passed before Yao continued. "And, well, since everyone's been stressed over exams and stuff, I thought that we could hang out. Go see a movie or something, you know?"

"Oh, I'm not sure if I can pay for that; I'm kind of broke," Ivan replied casually.

If only Yao knew that when Ivan said he was broke, he meant it. Ivan was broke in the most literal and metaphorical connotation and denotation of the word.

His lack of money stemmed far deeper than his allowance running low. Ivan was not simply broke. Ivan was broke - so _broken -_ that he couldn't afford food regularly. So broke that he'd stopped using shampoo for the past few months because that wasted money and the water bill. So broke that they sometimes shut the power - and by extension the heating - off. In the middle of winter. So broke that Ivan constantly worried about him and his family getting evicted from their crummy little house that was so small that Ivan slept in the attic since he had no room of his own. So broke that Ivan, that he, was broken.

 _Ivan's a broken doll who's too useless to fix himself._

Ivan shuttered, but he tried to shake away the depressing thoughts. Yao wouldn't judge him for not being able to afford movie tickets, right? Besides, Ivan didn't think that he needed or deserved to go out. Going out is for good people, good people whose parents love them.

Something within Ivan hurt so bad whenever he appreciated the realization that his own parents couldn't find it within them to love him, more than a punch ever could. His heart throbbed at the thought that he didn't deserve to be loved. He didn't deserve to go to the movies and have a little fun, and he didn't deserve Yao.

 _Ivan doesn't deserve anything._

"Ivan?"

 _You're useless, Ivan!_

"Hey, Ivan."

 _Shut up! No one wants to listen to you!_

"Oi! Ivan!"

 _Ivan, just go into a hole and **die.**_

"Ivan . . ?"

Ivan let out a gasp when he realized that Yao's hand was frantically dancing around in front of his face, and the teenager bit back a scream. He tried his best not to flush in shame as he slowly processed that Yao had been trying to get his attention.

"Ah! I'm so sorry!" The apology came automatically.

Ivan tried to not constantly apologize, he really did. He knew that apologizing for nothing, apologizing for just existing, would attract both attention and suspicion, but sometimes he'd mess up. Ivan's heart pounded as he waited for Yao to demand an explanation.

"It's fine."

Ivan had to stop himself from perking up at the fact that Yao didn't question him.

"Really?" Ivan asked as he twiddled awkwardly his fingers.

"Yeah, of course. I zone out all the time," Yao replied.

Ivan's psyche gave out the largest sigh of relief known to man.

"Hey, so, if you can't buy movie tickets, we could do something else if your parents let you," Yao suggested.

Ivan shrugged, crushed by the thought that his parents wouldn't even care if he didn't come home.

Opting for a less alarming response, Ivan told Yao, "Oh, my parents don't really care as long as I'm back by dark and don't do anything illegal." Ivan honest to god tried to make his statement sound humorous, but he had the feeling that he'd fallen flat somehow. He always fell flat, flat on his face and flat of everyone's expectations. He couldn't do anything right. Ivan can't do anything right, not a single damn thing!

 _You can't do anything right, Ivan!_ screamed the voice of his mother, but Ivan shoved the scream down, no matter how violently it bubbled just beneath water's surface.

"Oh, well, if you want, we can go somewhere else," Yao said, the boy smiling and not even so much as questioning Ivan's home life. "Saturday, maybe?"

"What about your studying?" Ivan asked. He needed an excuse, a reason that they couldn't hang out, because only good people like Yao deserve to have a good time. Not bad people. Not Ivan.

Yao rolled his eyes. "Don't worry about it! It's the weekend, so I should be free then, and I try to get as much as possible done at school anyway. That's why I was so stressed earlier."

Ivan nodded in understanding, but also within his nod was a spurt of panic. He tried to get his homework done during school, too, because at home it was the music that was too loud, or the parents that were too loud, or the shouting that was too loud, or the plain violence that was too loud.

All the while, Ivan racked his brain for an excuse. Something, anything, to explain why he couldn't go out on Saturday.

Finally, though, he'd come up with nothing, and Ivan internally threw in the towel. Although, a part of Ivan knew and felt guilty for the fact that he'd given up trying to find an excuse on purpose. As much as he knew that he didn't deserve it, he wanted to spend Saturday with Yao. He just wanted to have fun, to be a normal teenager for once.

"I have to go to the grocery store on Saturday before we can do anything, though," Yao explained. "If it's the weekend I'm usually the one who does the food shopping."

The idea that sparked in Ivan's head was instantaneous. That was it! This is it! Ivan could just go to the store with Yao! It didn't require for Ivan to spend any money, and he wouldn't be riddled with guilt because Yao needed to go to the store. Ivan would just be tagging along, not hurting anyone, and if he helped Yao find some items, then he could, at least for a moment, squish his violently raging guilty-complex.

"Well, we could just go to the store and hang out there," Ivan suggested as he tried to not look too, too excited, and at the same time he also wanted to not seem completely and utterly terrified.

"If you want to." Yao shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not sure if you'll like it there."

"Really? How come? Come on, it'll be fun." Ivan didn't want to sound like he was arguing, but this really was the only way he could hang out with Yao without being guilt-ridden.

"I dunno, I guess most people our age don't just go to the grocery store for fun." Yao looked at Ivan with a mildly confused expression.

"Oh, okay." Ivan could practically feel himself deflate.

"But," Yao's voice interrupted Ivan before he could get too far into his sulking, "I must admit." Yao's gentle smile grew into a playful grin, "It'd be really fun."

Ivan nodded, beckoning for Yao to go on.

"The store's pretty close, right next to the school, actually. Here, I'll write down the address, and we can meet there at one o' clock. That sound good? Or is another time better?"

"That works. But I didn't know that there's a grocery store that close to here," Ivan admitted.

"Oh, yeah, it's an Asian supermarket, so you might have not seen it before," Yao informed. "So, we'll go there, yeah?"

Ivan nodded.

Yao returned to his homework, and Ivan felt more excited and giddy than he'd ever allowed himself to feel before.

* * *

Whether it was nervousness or happiness that tingled within his gut, Ivan did not know. He only knew that right now, he was walking down the sidewalk with Yao. The two chatted, although as an adult, no matter how many times Ivan tries to, he can never remember the contents of the conversation.

After only a minute's walk, Ivan and Yao trotted into the store, and Ivan suddenly found himself overwhelmed.

The supermarket bustled with people.

Right away, when they entered the supermarket, the sight of a woman at the cash register haggling over a packet of noodles greeted Ivan. People talked and chatted and screamed at each other incessantly, and Ivan could hear every voice while at the same time his ears had numbed themselves from all the noise. He could smell spices, and see shopping carts being hurdled in every possible direction, and feel just how many people surrounded him.

If Yao wasn't holding onto his arm, Ivan would have sprinted out the store right there and then.

Ivan started to sweat. The only stores he'd grown familiar with were the dollar or convenience stores during the dead of night. Additionally, he'd never been surrounded by so many people before, much less so many loud people.

Loud people scared Ivan Braginski; they scared him very much. Because Mr. and Mrs. Braginski are loud, and Mr. and Mrs. Braginski are abusive, so subconsciously Ivan made the connection between loud and abusive people to be the same.

Ivan squinted his eyes shut and against his will weaved his fingers over his skull in order to protect his head. The store, due to all the people and noise and events and commotion, was hot, almost to an unbearable extent, but Ivan shook as if he still stood outside.

"Hey, you alright?" Yao inquired. Yao's voice sounded so soft, especially against the background of a thousand voices.

Ivan snapped out of it, nodded, then mentally slapped himself for being so nervous.

Of course no one was just going to walk up to them and slap Ivan and Ivan only in the face.

Of course no one was going to just start randomly yelling at Ivan.

Of course Mom and Dad weren't lurking among the sea of people, ready to tear Ivan physically and mentally to shreds.

 _Fucking die, Ivan Braginski!_

Ivan stayed several steps behind Yao, just in case there existed someone in the store who wanted to crack a bat across Ivan's face.

"Okay, so I have the shopping list here." Yao, again, had somehow managed to pull Ivan out from his sea of despair, and Ivan prayed to God that Yao couldn't hear his immediate sigh of relief or his heartbeat.

"So what do you have to get first, then?" Ivan asked. He pretended that he was okay.

"Tapioca starch," Yao spouted out to the tune of Ivan's confusion.

"I'm not sure what that is," Ivan admitted.

"It's kind of like cornstarch, I guess," Yao began. "But it has more applications than just as a thickening agent. You know those little boba tea pearls?"

Ivan nodded.

"My mom told me that tapioca starch comes from the same stuff that makes those tea bubbles."

"Oh, that's quite interesting," Ivan commented as he tried to alleviate the tension within himself.

Yao picked up a shopping basket, and they walked in silence for about a minute.

Ivan stuck out like a sore thumb; he always did.

The sense of darkness around him, and the pain that constantly glazed over in his eyes, and the fear that radiated through his entire being, made Ivan stick out in all the wrong ways.

His clothes were more worn than they should have been, and he for sure looked skinnier than he should have been - especially for how tall he was - and he for sure looked sadder than he should have been.

As Yao guided Ivan to the tapioca starch, Ivan just tried his best not to close his eyes and dive under the stack of noodles.

Tapioca starch.

Dried noodles.

Shiitake mushrooms.

Bok choy.

Fish.

As the two teenagers went through the grocery list, Ivan's stomach started protesting. He felt so hungry.

Ivan tried to subtly search for a free sample, tried to find one way or another to feed his ever-growing hunger without looking suspicious, but he ultimately couldn't do much about his stomach, which had been moaning quietly to Ivan since yesterday evening.

So much food surrounded him, but he couldn't eat any of it. He couldn't buy anything, not even a bag of chips, and he wasn't willing to risk the consequences of stealing. Ivan's knees felt weak as an overwhelming sensation of dizziness overtook him.

Don't pass out. Don't pass out. Don't pass out. Don't pass out.

With all his might, with his head not making sense and his hands shaking, with all his burdens and insecurities, Ivan pushed himself to just follow Yao.

The smell of cumin and chili oil, the loud chatter of a woman on her phone, the frying of rice over a bed of vegetables, everywhere Ivan went, everywhere Ivan looked, everything was in every place, and everyone was doing everything, and every minute and every second and every moment was hitting him square in the face. The noise and smells and sights were punching Ivan, punching him almost as hard as fists would.

"Okay, we just have to pick up some onions, and we'll be done."

Ivan visibly shot his head up as Yao's voice cut through the internal, hidden turmoil.

"Alright." Ivan attempted to not have his voice shake. He attempted to stay calm, or to at least appear that way. He attempted to pretend that everything was okay, even though every fiber within him screamed for help and comfort and food and love.

 _You can't be helped, Ivan. No one can help you. You don't deserve help._

Before Ivan knew it, he was being swept to the checkout. He held the basket full of groceries while Yao pulled out his wallet to pay, and Ivan found it quite very strange, but also quite very fantastic, that Yao didn't even bat an eye at paying thirty dollars in a single go. If Ivan was lucky, he'd have half that amount of money for two weeks worth of instant ramen.

Those were the things Ivan had to worry about. While his parents were off doing who the fuck knows what, Ivan was the one worrying about if all the bills were paid, worrying about how much food rested in the cupboards, worrying about if his parents were going to get a DUI that night - since no way in hell could someone in Ivan's financial situation begin to think about affording even a damn parking ticket. Somehow, even though Ivan was the child, he found himself being the parent of two grown-ups who refused to grow up.

Don't even let Ivan get started on how in the world he was going to be able to pay for college.

Ivan and Yao now stood outside the grocery store with ample time on their hands and not a lot to do.

"Thanks for coming with me," Yao told Ivan. Yao smiled.

Ivan grunted in acknowledgement, but a part of him feared that he'd actually just burdened Yao rather than helped him.

"Wanna get some ice cream of something?" Yao asked, all of a sudden.

Ivan perked up a bit, but, like how most of his dreams got shot down into the ocean, he insisted that he couldn't. "I'm broke, remember?"

"Ah, it's no big deal," Yao began. "I'll pay for it, then."

"I'm not sure if I can pay you back." Ivan shifted. He began to feel uncomfortable at the fact that he was being forced to hint at his tight finances.

"No problem," Yao replied nonchalantly. "Think of it as a thank-you for helping me carry the groceries."

Yao did not have to say another word. At the drop of a hat, Ivan agreed quicker than he should have, especially with his previous hesitance, but he couldn't help himself. Ivan's stomach hurt from hunger, and the calories in an ice cream cone could keep him going for at least another two days.

Off the two teenagers went, one of them excited for ice cream and the other one thanking the universe for allowing him to, by the end of the afternoon, have something in his stomach.

* * *

Ivan tried not to go overboard with the ice cream. He wanted more, because he honestly had no idea when he'd eat next, but he restrained himself and got a cone of chocolate ice cream. Yao bought himself a cup of vanilla, and the two of them seated themselves in the ice cream parlor and started to chat.

"So, why do you buy groceries for your mom, anyway?" Ivan asked, genuinely curious.

"She plays Mahjong every Saturday with her friends, so she just asks me to pick some things up for dinner." Yao plopped a dab of vanilla into his mouth, and Ivan mimicked the action by taking a lick of his own ice cream. Yao continued. "I mean, it's the least I can do. My mom works really hard, so she more than deserves to at least have some fun."

A pause, and the dreaded question came. Or rather, Ivan detested talking about himself to the utmost degree.

"What about you, then, Ivan?"

Ivan did his best to deflect. "What do you mean?"

"I dunno, it's just that you never talk about your family." Yao took another bite of his ice cream, and at that moment Ivan knew that Yao was blissfully unaware of the other's plight - the way Ivan wanted to keep it. The last thing Ivan wanted to do was to unload his problems onto Yao.

Ivan allowed for the world to freeze for just a moment. If he stayed silent for too long, though, then Yao would notice that something was off for sure. "Oh, really?"

Ivan knew that he was spouting bullshit, but he couldn't think of much else.

"Yeah. It sounds weird me telling this to you, but out of all the people I know, you talk about your family the least."

"Well, I guess I just don't like to talk about those things. Maybe it's a Russian thing. Nothing against my parents; I just kind of like to keep lots of things personal." More bullshit, and the lies weren't even that good, but at least they were vague enough as to prevent any potential future inconsistencies.

"Understandable."

Ivan didn't speak for a while underneath the excuse of him eating.

For a while, Ivan felt calm.

The people at school weren't staring at him in complete terror, nor were his parents terrorizing him. It was just peaceful. Ivan almost felt normal as he enjoyed both the ice cream and the time spent with Yao.

He looked so normal right now. Ivan simply looked like a guy hanging out with a friend of his, and they were eating ice cream. The ice cream parlor was their stage, and the play was just that - a fictional scenario where Ivan could afford ice cream as more than a once-a-three-years treat.

As Ivan finished his ice cream, he realized just how much he enjoyed Yao's company.

He realized just how much he enjoyed normal.


	4. You are My Sunshine

**Chapter 4: You are My Sunshine**

* * *

From day one Yao was suspicious.

Something about Ivan seemed off, something not right, as if Ivan was hiding. Yao could practically smell Ivan's secrets.

However, Yao held no suspicion towards Ivan. In fact, Yao could dare say that he quite liked Ivan's company. Ivan was quiet, yet thoughtful. Reserved, yet protective. Feared, yet Yao wasn't afraid. Ivan was just, simply, undeniably, absolutely, nice. Pleasant. Lovely. _Handsome._

Yao shook his head. As he and Ivan sat in the ice cream parlor, Ivan steadily consuming his chocolate and Yao chipping away at the vanilla, Yao had to force the thoughts away.

Ivan probably wasn't even gay.

Much less liked Yao in that way.

Yao wished he could have told Ivan, wished that he could have told anyone other than his mom - who honestly couldn't give a shit about his sexuality, but in a good way - but he just couldn't. He couldn't risk ruining a friendship over this. He couldn't risk ruining _this_ friendship. No matter how unrequited, their friendship was special. It made Yao's heart beat, and his face heat, and everything in the world was good when Ivan was with him.

Yao had other friends, but they weren't _this_ close. He didn't have _this_ with his other friends. He could just talk to Ivan, and there would be no judgement, no groaning, no hesitation from him. Ivan would hug him if Yao'd had a rough day. He would smile at him, call him a sunflower.

Yao couldn't risk a friendship over something as silly as his feelings. Not _this_ friendship.

But still, Yao was suspicious.

He asked Ivan about his family, and Ivan responded with something normal, something reasonable. He smiled and laughed with a short-winded explanation about how Russians didn't talk about their families much. But something was off.

The way Ivan looked away, how he froze and had to think. It was hesitation, just a little, tiny, dab of itty-bitty hesitation.

And then there were the other things.

Ivan was abnormally thin, abnormally scared, abnormally jumpy of everything and anything.

Why didn't Ivan have lunch?

Why were his pencils always little, worn-down nubs? Couldn't he just buy new ones?

And he wore the same clothes every day, and this would have been a bit more normal if it weren't for the fact that stains from yesterday were still there tomorrow.

A few weeks ago Ivan had spilled some of the pork from the Baozi on his jeans, but the next day - the next several days - the stain was still there.

One time, Yao had even caught Ivan brushing his teeth in the school's bathroom.

Who brushed their fucking teeth in the gross school bathroom? Especially more than once? And in the middle of the damn day? And why was Ivan using string from the art room to floss his teeth?

It just didn't make sense.

Ivan couldn't afford anything, either. He always declined movie invitations because he couldn't pay. His allowance was always low, too low to be reasonable, especially since Yao could clearly see that Ivan spent next to no money.

He wore the same boots every day, and never took his scarf off, and sure, maybe Yao was just being overly paranoid, but something really seemed off. The fact that Ivan never talked about his parents was even more food for thought.

Ivan also sure looked hungry while he was eating his ice cream.

Yao wasn't one to jump to conclusions with such little evidence, but he could almost feel that Ivan was hiding something.

They finished the ice cream, threw their trash away, and left the parlor, their casualness, their friendship, their enjoyment of a simple afternoon, bright like the sun.

Ivan still looked jumpy. And hungry. He always looked hungry. Why did Ivan always look so, so hungry?

Why were his cheekbones so, so sharp? Why were his fingers so bony and thin and gangly? Why were his eyes sunken in? His face so tired? His nails so brittle and weak?

Why did Ivan look so malnourished?

And why did he look so sad? All the time?

As Yao and Ivan walked, these were the questions the floated in and out of Yao's head.

Neither knew what they wanted to do. They'd dropped the groceries off at Yao's house. They'd had some ice cream. Now what? It was then that Yao realized how little he knew about Ivan. He then realized how little Ivan talked about himself. He almost seemed to _hate_ talking about himself.

"So, Ivan, you want to do something else?" Yao asked. He was careful. He was unusually cautious for some reason, almost as if he was testing hot bathwater. Yao had the gut feeling to be careful. He had the gut feeling that if he pushed too hard Ivan would break.

Ivan thought, then shrugged. He looked indifferent, but Yao could smell his fear. He could see the way he turned when someone walked by, the way his shoulders jumped just a little when they heard a car door slam, the way Ivan was subconsciously cupping his hand over his head.

Ivan looked like a scared deer in headlights who was pretending to not be a afraid of the car.

The two friends walked, the bright sun beating down on them even in the bitter December cold.

'I," Ivan began, "I'm not sure what to do, if I'm to be honest."

Yao didn't say anything in reply. He didn't have to. He and Ivan just understood; they just understood each other. They were aimless, yet Yao felt comfortable. Somehow, he'd trust Ivan with his life. He didn't know why. He simply had this feeling, this fluttering, flustered, pleasantly stranded feeling that swelled in his chest as he walked with his friend. Yao felt safe. Not that he usually felt unsafe, of course, but there was something about Ivan.

Ivan was tall, and was thin yet looked quite obviously strong, presence looming and protective. Ivan smiled at Yao, but it wasn't forced. Yao just smiled back. It was nice. Yao felt nice. He felt nice and happy and safe as they walked.

If only he knew that his suspicions about Ivan were onto something.

* * *

As he and Yao walked through December sun and snow, Ivan felt scared. He always felt scared. He felt a little less scared with Yao, though. There was this glimmer of hope. On Ivan was just a small drop of sunshine. Yao was a sunflower who radiated drops of sun.

Ivan didn't know why he felt this way. He didn't know why Yao made his heart beat so fast and his head flutter like a paper in the wind. He just felt that way.

Yao was pretty; that was what Ivan could see. Yao was pretty and kind and so interesting and nice to talk to. Yao's so nice. The nicest person Ivan'd ever seen.

Yao didn't scream. He didn't hit. He didn't run away. He was simply there. He was a friend. He comforted Ivan when he needed that. Ivan comforted Yao when he needed it. They talked. They hardly ever argued. They just got along. Ivan enjoyed Yao. He enjoyed his company.

So, Ivan wondered as he and Yao wandered through shops and stores parking lots, this is what a healthy relationship looks like. Ivan had seen it. He'd seen it in TV, as well as in real life. He saw how people got along. He saw how most people didn't yell at each other every five seconds. But he never thought that it'd actually happen to him. It's happened to him. It'd happened to Ivan.

Yao was - is - so much more than Ivan deserved - so much more than Ivan deserves.

Ivan didn't deserve to be happy.

But Yao deserved to be happy.

Yao's a good boy whose mom loves him.

Ivan's a bad person whose mom and dad can't even look him in the eye.

Ivan moved closer to Yao. He'd protect Yao. He'd protect their friendship with his life, because Yao made him feel immeasurably safe.

The sun gives life. Yao gave - gives - Ivan life.

Yao was - he is - the Sun. He is Ivan's Sun.

Ivan wanted, he wanted so badly to just hold Yao's hand. But you can't touch the sun, can you?

As Ivan and Yao walked through sun and snow, Ivan could only dream of holding Yao's hand.

If Ivan's parents weren't anything else, they sure as hell were homophobic. That made Ivan's fluttering heart drop. It dropped from the sky and hit the concrete, hard.

* * *

"Alright, well, I guess this is goodbye."

Yao looked at Ivan as he stood on the front porch of his house.

Ivan took it all in.

The front porch was clean.

The snow was shoveled.

Lights on, windows not smashed, no garbage or rubble on the front steps.

As Ivan stood in front of Yao's front door, he felt a gust of warm air. Weird, that Yao's family didn't have to turn the heat down low just to save power.

"Thanks for walking me home." Yao smiled at Ivan. Ivan smiled back. It felt so nice to have someone smile at him.

"You sure that you're okay walking home by yourself, though? If you wait, my mom will be home with the car, and I can drive you to your house," Yao offered.

Yao was so nice. He's so nice.

 _He's so much nicer than you, Ivan._

What had Ivan done to deserve someone so nice?

 _You're a bad person, Ivan, a bad, bad person._

How did Yao find it within himself to care?

 _Ivan, no one cares about you. No one ever will._

Ivan smiled again. He tried his best not to sweat, and while he wanted to stay at Yao's house, wanted to stay away from his own home for as long as he possibly could, he just shook his head. He shook his head as if he was shaking off his problems.

Yao didn't deserve to find out.

Ivan's neighborhood was dangerous. It was old, and anyone who could afford to move out did. Anyone who didn't, locked the doors at night and prayed to God no one would break in.

Ivan wasn't religious, but every night he prayed hard.

"I'll be fine," Ivan told Yao. He was still smiling.

"Alright, well, take care. If you need anything, you know where to go." Yao, to Ivan's surprise, hugged him. The hug wasn't anything big. It wasn't even that long. Yao's fingers just grazed Ivan's jacket, and with one last grin and goodbye, Yao, gently, shut the door. He shut it so gently, almost as if suggesting to Ivan that the door was always open to him.

Ivan nearly cried. No one had ever hugged him before.

He stumbled down the clean steps of Yao's porch, his very feet not wanting to go home.

His shoulders and arms felt warm. They felt warm from where Yao had hugged him. It wasn't even a big deal. It was normal. It was normal for friends to hug each other. But no one had ever hugged Ivan before. He hadn't known what it felt like. Arms warn, shoulders tingly, it felt so strange. He could feel the indents created by Yao's fingers. Yao still felt there.

Home was far. It was far, far away from the safety of Yao's neighborhood. It was far, far away from the safety of Yao.

 _You don't deserve to be saved, Ivan._

In the cold snow, as cloud covered sun, Ivan prayed to God for Yao to save him.

He felt selfish for doing so, but oh, dear God, save him.

Mom and Dad were probably drunk off their asses right now, and Ivan couldn't save himself from them.

* * *

Ivan ran through his house. Up the stairs he went, his footsteps loud as the creaking floorboards. The adrenaline pumped through his veins.

Pay no attention to the mold on the crumbling plaster job.

Try not to think about how easy it is to smash the windows.

Don't be bothered by the roaches in the walls.

As he scurried up the stairs, he heard his mother and father, drunk and yelling at each other. Ivan winced as he plugged his ears.

Just hide and stay out of the way. His day with Yao was over. The fantasy was over, and he was back in reality. The sun had gone away.

Ivan slammed down the ladder to the attic and hurried up into the roof. He landed on the attic's floor, among the insulation and loose floorboards.

Quick.

Close the hatch.

Barricade the door with the bookshelf.

Lights off.

Pray that the monsters don't get you.

Ivan curled on his mattress with his winter clothes still on. He didn't have any pajamas to change into, so he just tried to sleep as he heard his parents scream at each other downstairs.

Oh, dear God, save him.


	5. Water Thicker Than Blood

**Chapter 5: Water Thicker Than Blood**

* * *

The library made Ivan feel at home. Yao made Ivan feel at home. Ivan felt safe with Yao. He felt safe in the library, talking to his friend and eating his baozi bun. But not now. Now, it was just plain awkward.

"A sleepover?"

"Yeah, yeah! Exams are over! It's going to be winter break soon."

The pork and egg of the baozi bun filled Ivan's grumbling stomach. It got between his teeth. The sticky dough clung to the roof of his mouth. Ivan swirled his tongue, around and around his gums so that he could get every last crumb.

Ivan felt unsure. He was confused. He almost chocked. He'd heard right, right? Yao'd asked the question, correct? _That_ question? Ivan was half convinced he was dreaming.

Ivan? Ivan of all people? Why did Yao want to invite Ivan _fucking_ Braginski to a sleepover? Ivan bit his tongue; he had to force himself not to say that out loud.

"What? You've never been to one before?" Yao asked.

Ivan didn't reply.

Scared. Cornered. Confused. Ivan felt all of these things.

But the absolute last thing he expected was embarrassment. Ivan felt his cheeks flush, just a little bit, because somehow, he felt so damn embarrassed all of a sudden.

Sure, no one had ever had the nerve to invite him to a sleepover before.

Sure, Ivan felt silly for being so afraid of sleeping away from home - no matter how unpleasant home could be.

And sure, Ivan stuck out sorely because he was probably the only teenager in the entire goddamn school to have never slept over at someone's house before.

But embarrassed?

"What?" Yao teased. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about."

No, no, no, Ivan couldn't feel embarrassed. _Embarrassed._ It was such a silly feeling, a silly feeling for people who had normal lives. People with normal parents and normal problems.

Ivan fucking Braginski was hardened against embarrassment. He was sure he'd grown immune to it.

Until now.

Ivan looked at Yao and furiously shook his head. "I'm not embarrassed, silly!" He tried to look bashful and not completely and utterly terrified.

Embarrassed. It felt so fucking strange to be embarrassed. _Embarrassed!_

Ivan wasn't embarrassed when he'd paid for two crates of instant ramen with nothing but a box full of coupons.

Ivan wasn't embarrassed as he trekked through summer, his scarf wrapped snugly around his sweating neck to hide bruises.

And Ivan certainly wasn't embarrassed while rummaging through the dumpster for an old backpack, because only hell would pay for a brand new one.

Those times were different, however. Every time someone stared at Ivan, every time someone mocked him, every time someone's eyes pierced cleanly through his very soul, Ivan realized that he couldn't even give two shits. He didn't know them. He'd never see them again. They were strangers, and they would stay strangers. But Yao, Yao wasn't a stranger. Dare Ivan say, he was Ivan's friend. Ivan cared what Yao thought.

That felt strange. At that moment Ivan realized he actually cared what Yao thought of him. Everything from his unkempt hair to his busted shoelaces made Ivan feel so self-conscious. Ivan found that he actually bothered to comb his hair now. He hadn't known why, but he did now. It was all Yao.

Slick back his hair, tie his shoelaces, button his coat, shower every once in a while. Ivan's heart felt fuzzy. His head, too. He couldn't look good for himself, but he could for Yao. He couldn't feel embarrassed for himself, but he did in front of Yao, too.

Yao had all eyes on Ivan, and Yao didn't even know it.

"Geez, you're wound up tighter than the pins in my mom's hair." Yao snickered. He giggled. Ivan only tilted his head down. He let it hang low, his hair the only thing covering his shame.

"Oh, don't worry about it, you big goof!" Yao laughed once more. The fingers which playfully slapped Ivan's back hurt the scabs and scars and sequences of bruises which rested beneath the thin wool of Ivan's sweater. Ivan winced, but not too hard. Yao didn't even seem to notice, and for that Ivan felt nothing but relief.

"Yeah, yeah," Ivan chuckled. His chuckle shook, hard. It wobbled dangerously, but Yao just continued as per usual.

They playfully bickered back and forth. Back and forth with banter; this was better.

Yao cupped the sides of Ivan's face with his hands. They were up close now, eyes closed. Ivan had to hold back from kissing his friend.

 _Don't do it, Ivan._

But -

 _Stop it._

I -

 _You don't deserve it, IVAN._

Ivan shot back. Yao seemed to have realized what he was doing.

Both their faces, red. They both turned away.

Ivan was on the edge of his seat, literally. His book sat on the table, practically forgotten, the wrapper of the now eaten bun barely touching page 67.

"I," Yao began. He still couldn't face Ivan. "I'm sorry, I. I. I."

Yao was stuck on the word 'I.' He sounded like a robot on loop. The eye contact between the two of them looked like mismatched teeth. They should have matched. Their eyes should have met. But they didn't. Each boy's line of sight, zigzagging from the other's. Their faces awkwardly jumbled together with their blushing faces.

"So you were talking about a sleepover?" Ivan couldn't stand this silence anymore.

"Oh, yes, yes! That. So, you want to stay a night or not?"

* * *

Ivan had to convince Yao he was normal. He had to; he just had to. Preparation was the only way to go about this.

Or at least that was what Ivan was telling himself as he sat in a school bathroom stall after hours, cutting a piece of artist's twine and stuffing it into an old, empty box of floss.

He had to convince Yao. He cared what Yao thought now. Yao couldn't be suspicious; he just couldn't. Ivan couldn't bring himself to tell Yao what was really going on. He couldn't bring Yao to discover his sorry state on his own, either.

He was being ridiculous. Of course Ivan was being ridiculous as he cut the string with a razor-blade and wound it around the box's internal mechanism.

It sounded so silly, but Ivan felt a previously unknown compulsion to make Yao think that he could actually afford floss from a plastic box. Ivan had also splurged a bit on name-brand toothpaste. He'd be normal; he'd be normal; he'd be normal. Ivan - if he couldn't be - could at least pretend to be able to afford waxed floss and name-brand toothpaste. Regularly. Without having to worry about stock and conservation and everything down to the last penny.

Ivan then realized how badly his hands were shaking.

Ivan bit back a scream. He froze himself. His stiffened his face, his arms, his legs. He stopped the sawing motion with the razor on the floss.

He tilted his head back, nose up into the air and eyes facing the bright fluorescent lights. His eyes watered from the brightness and his own tears. His mouth opened, but he couldn't scream. His voice was raspy, muted. He was silent. He had been silenced. He was angry now.

He pulled back the string with the razor. He was angry. He kept cutting the string into little ribbons. Pinch the string in half, cut into two, repeat, until his fingers could no longer stand the sensation of the razor's edge pressing into his fingers.

Ivan balled up the string into his hands. He squeezed so tightly that the twine's rough texture indented his skin. He felt his nails press into his palm.

Take deeps breaths. Ivan took deep breaths. Calm down. He didn't want to be angry anymore. His father was an angry man. An angry, violent, scary man. That was not Ivan. The adrenaline, the high. Being angry was almost like being high. Because Ivan actually had a reason to be angry, resentful, hurtful. He'd been hurt. He'd been hurt for so long. He wanted to be like the angry people who hurt him.

Why should he be calm? Gentle? Caring? When the people around him weren't? Why did Mom and Dad expect him to be well-behaved if they themselves were dicks? Twats? Assholes?

They drove around drunk. They honked at the old lady crossing the road when it was supposed to be the red light. They were the ones who shouted at the cashier for being too slow. His dad was the man who'd slap a woman's butt in front of his wife, and he wouldn't even ask for consent.

Invade personal space. Show up drunk or hungover to everything. In fact, don't even show up. Be three hours late and be mad when you have to face the consequences. Complain left and right, up and down about this generation when you yourself are a failure as a person.

Keep a job for a week before the manager breaks and fires you on the spot. Work sloppily, slowly. Don't work at all; claim low income and eat up welfare when there're people who actually deserve it. Expect the best when you can't even half-ass something.

Be that one person no one invites to family reunions.

Ivan was surrounded by that. Every day, he had to deal with his parents. They were like children. Spoiled, annoying, sociopath children who couldn't take care of their own child, either. Ivan could feel the resentment bubble up as he remembered sitting up at night at one in the morning, punching numbers into the calculator and arranging the money into envelopes to make sure they didn't shut off the hot water.

And every time Ivan tried to get a job he'd be rejected. Ivan needed money, but he always, always, always got rejected.

He probably looked quite scary. Scarf tight, smile too uncanny. Face thin, fingers withered. Scary, sad, possibly clinically depressed. If Ivan was someone else he wouldn't trust Ivan with even stacking boxes in the back.

It was then Ivan thought of Yao and his family. Yao was hardworking. His mother took care of her son. Those were the people Ivan strove to be. Considerate, caring. Concentrated, kind. They were the people who smiled at the old lady crossing the street. They were the type of people to stop their car even for ducks. Yao was the embodiment of sunshine.

Ivan smiled. He wiped away his tears.

If Yao could be his sunshine, then Ivan could be Yao's sunshine.

Not turning out like his parents was Ivan's ultimate revenge, the final blow, one last slap to the face before he left home and never came back. No matter what life threw at him, Ivan would be kind. He wouldn't abuse, or hurt, or even yell. He wanted to smile. He wanted to be soft, nice, comforting. He wanted for Yao to lean on his shoulder as much as he leaned on Yao.

Ivan unrolled some more string. He wrapped it inside the box of floss, and snipped the twine with the razor. He'd only be hurting string with this razor. He wasn't angry anymore. To be angry enough to hurt other people? No. Never.

Ivan tucked the razor, string, and floss box into his old, beat-up, worn-down backpack. He'd already done the dishes, washed the clothes, left out some steamed rice and stewed meat for his parents. He didn't want his mom stabbing someone's eye out as she tried to cut a carrot. He didn't want for his father to be angry at him and beat him for leaving all the housework undone.

Ivan snickered at that. He couldn't remember the last time either of his parents did any of the housework, ever.

Have fun tonight. For now, that was Ivan's only plan. Spend some quality time with Yao, maybe watch a movie with him. Be nice; be kind.

Don't turn out like Mom and Dad. Ivan was sure he wouldn't.

He was damn right.

* * *

Yao mother was so nice. She smiled. She hugged Yao after he came home from school. She shook Ivan's hand, and she didn't even look terrified. Yao looked so happy to see his mom. Yao and his mother started talking in a dizzying blend of Mandarin and English.

Ivan picked out some words: Dinner, dishes, Ivan, sleepover, have fun.

Yao led Ivan to the sink. They stood there and helped Yao's mom rinse out some small bowls and a pan, and after chopping some cabbage and peeling a couple of taro roots and daikon, they were free to go up the stairs and into Yao's room.

Yao's house looked so pretty. The paint was perfectly intact. There wasn't a missing window, or smashed mirror, or even trash anywhere in sight. No beer bottles, either. The sofa was still white. The carpet was still clean. There was no mold on the walls. It even smelled nice. It smelled like incense.

Ivan turned his head, and on a shelf he saw a pot of incense, several black and white photos of people - people who strongly resembled Yao and his mother - and a bowl of fruit. A couple pieces of jewelry, some wilted flowers, dry rice in a chipped porcelain bowl. They looked like little tokens of people long gone. They seemed so intimate, so personal. The display surrounding the items looked like a mini temple. The gold Chinese characters glistened in the red light being emitted from the electric candles. A small, jade Buddha situated in the center smiled at Ivan.

Ivan asked Yao what it was, feeling silly for asking such a ridiculous question, but Yao didn't seem to mind.

"It's a family shrine. They're really common in Asian households. If you go into Chinatown, they're absolutely everywhere." Yao pointed at the photos. He told Ivan each of the names of the people on the shelf. His uncle, his grandma. His great auntie, his grandpa. Yao paused at the colored photo.

In the frame was a man who looked - he looked almost like Yao. The light brown eyes, the long hair, the smooth face and small cheekbones. The picture was in color. It wasn't grainy. It seemed strangely new. It didn't look like it was ready to be there yet.

Yao frowned, then smiled. "That's Dad."

Ivan paused. He almost did a double-take. Ivan put his hand on Yao's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I. I don't know what to say."

"It's fine. It was a long time ago. I was too young to remember anything, really." Yao sighed. He rested his head on Ivan's hand. He looked sad, yet glad. "Mom talks about him a lot." Yao giggled. He chuckled. His laugh was fond, full of memories that weren't all that clear but still pleasant. "Mom told me that him and I would always beg her to let us get a cat, over and over and over. She kept saying no."

They heard a meow.

Yao turned around. Ivan did, too.

There sat a tall, slim, calico cat. Green eyes looked at Ivan curiously. Ivan looked back. The cat seemed fascinated. Orange paws pounced into Yao's awaiting arms. A chocolate-colored nose sniffed Yao's face curiously. Ivan stuck out his hand and felt the pink, sandpaper tongue on his index finger.

"Hi there, hi baby girl," Yao sounded like a parent talking to his child. Yao looked so enthusiastic. He bounced on his knees a little, then rolled gently on the balls of his feet. "Say hi to Ivan, say hi to Ivan, Mochi!"

Mochi just meowed again. She looked unimpressed, but at least she wasn't scared of Ivan. Ivan would take that.

"Looks like you got a cat, after all," Ivan joked tentatively.

Yao seemed to appreciate his attempt at making light of the situation. Yao stuck his tongue out and laughed. It almost came out as a snort. "Oh, you're such a goofball, Ivan."

Yao handed Ivan Mochi. Ivan was afraid he'd crush her. He'd never held an animal before; he'd never had a childhood pet; if he kept a cat his father would probably try to rip its head off. The idea of such a sweet cat being hurt made Ivan internally cringe.

Mochi seemed to trust Ivan, though. So did Yao. Ivan gently held her and stroked the scruff of her neck. She purred. She rubbed her face all over Ivan's.

"She's claiming you as her territory," Yao teased. "That's weird, though. She's not usually that affectionate with strangers."

"Cute kitty." Ivan smiled as Mochi licked his nose, his cheek, her paws. She tried grooming herself in Ivan's strong yet gentle hold. The fact the Mochi didn't look uncomfortable one bit made Ivan feel comfortable, too.

She flopped all over Ivan's arms, limbs outstretched and belly exposed for Yao to pet.

"I think she likes you." Yao continued petting her. He got all up into her face and played with her. He tickled her paws, let her adorn his cheeks with little cat kisses, rubbed her back and tummy.

When they got to Yao's room Mochi was still relishing in the attention she was receiving.

Yao's room was the messiest in the entire house, but even then it was leagues cleaner than Ivan's home. Yao's room wasn't dirty, just messy. Disorganized books, disjointed and disconnected wires, pencils and papers everywhere. Messy, but not dirty. Nothing smelled. Yao was just an unorganized teenager, nothing wrong with that.

There were some anime posters, pictures of family members, and a few drawings pinned to both the walls and a cork board in the middle of what was possibly hundreds of photos of Mochi.

A picture of Yao and his mom sat on Yao's desk, and on the other side was a picture of Yao as a child with both his parents.

They sat down among the clothes, textbooks, and video-games, and Ivan took just a second extra to marvel at the personality of Yao's room. Yao had a room. He had his own, moderately messy, personal, private, homey room.

Yao stood. He pulled off his coat, hat, and bulky snow pants, only to reveal a t-shirt and plaid shorts. Ivan looked at Yao's exposed, slender legs. Had they always looked that fucking good? Ivan forced his gaze away. He felt weird staring at Yao like that.

"You know, you can pull off your winter clothes, too. You'll get hot if you don't," Yao told him while still turned around. "My mom cranks up the heat big-time. It's a thing. She's always going on about how you'll get sick if it's too cold."

Ivan forced himself to laugh through Yao's unintentionally damning remark. "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes, yes." Ivan was stiff again, but he forced his muscles to stop tensing. Mochi noticed and looked at him funny, almost suspiciously, before returning to grooming her back.

"Your mom doesn't like it being too cold, yes?" When Ivan was nervous his Russian accent really started to creep in.

Yao huffed and spun around to Ivan. He crossed his arms, his lips in a mild pout. "Oh, don't get me started! She won't even drink cold water!"

That actually made Ivan laugh. Yao did, too, and sat back down. He spread out his legs, letting Mochi use him as a human climbing post. Ivan reached over to Mochi to pet her, who had apparently forgiven him for being so stiff and awkward around Yao.

"Dinner'll probably be ready soon. You want to watch a movie? Play some video-games? We could watch anime, too," Yao offered.

"Are you fine with a movie?"

"Yeah! Of course." Yao got up again. Ivan turned away from Yao's nice-looking legs. Ivan saw Mochi stare him down, seemingly in realization. "I have loads of stuff. The Matrix, Avengers, Age of Ultron, Wonder Woman, all the Fast and Furious movies. Wanna take a peak?"

Ivan sprang up almost too quickly. Eyes still diverted from Yao's legs, Ivan joined Yao as they combed through boxes full of DVDs.

"What's this?" Ivan asked. He pointed to a sleeve which had Flamingos standing in a line by the water. as the cover

"What? You've never watched the Planet Earth Documentaries?" Yao looked pale as a ghost. Ivan thought that he'd done something wrong, something bad, something worth punishing - again. But Yao just opened his mouth, eyes now more determined than shocked. "That settles it! You're watching these, pronto! I can't believe it! You've never seen these before? You'll LOVE it. The narrator's voice is the greatest thing you'll ever hear; trust me."

Oh, it was.

After Yao slipped the disk into his computer and the three of them piled onto Yao's bed, Ivan found himself entranced. Entranced by the documentary, by the warm bed, and most of all, by Yao. Yao looked gorgeous as he lied on his stomach in a t-shirt and shorts, snort-laughing at baby animals and clinging onto Ivan whenever there was a particularly intense chase scene. All while Yao's red duvet drowned them all in folds of fabric and cotton.

Soothing narration, baby animals making miraculous escapes from predators, gorgeous shots of the landscape. The camera angles looked almost as pretty as Yao.

Mochi pounced at the TV whenever she saw another cat on screen. She stood proudly at the clips of snow leopards and lions, fluffing her chest and arrogantly raising her head as if she could take even the fiercest of predators. Whenever there was anything which remotely resembled a prey item she longed at the screen, making Yao and Ivan laugh every time.

Ivan kept nervously glancing over at Yao. Mochi kept giving Ivan the stink eye, as if saying that Yao was her's. Ivan wasn't about to compete with Yao's cat now, even as she got jealous when Yao snuggled into Ivan's shoulders instead of her's. He just sighed and tried to win her over with some head scratches. That seemed to have worked, for now.

"Yao!"

Yao paused the movie.

"DINNER!"

"Coming, Mom!"

Yao clumsily fell out of the blankets, legs slipping onto wood floors. Mochi followed just as enthusiastically, if not more gracefully as well. Ivan tagged behind, not quite sure how to handle a parent actually giving him food, rather than the other way around.

As Ivan and Yao sat at the table, Yao's mother gave Mochi her own dinner: ground meat and bone marrow mixed with some kibble. Yao said to Ivan that his mother swore by that mixture. Yao's mother playfully pawed with Mochi right before Mochi began scarfing down the contents of her meal.

Ivan just vicariously looked on as Mochi ate, realizing that a fucking house cat's dinner was better than what his normally was. Mainly, nothing with a side of instant ramen.

Yao's mother then laid down the people food, because of course the cat had to be fed first.

Soup with floating fish balls and vegetables, rice, steamed Chinese broccoli in sauce, deep fried taro, and some leftover beef.

It was wondrous, to have this much fresh food on a table. Ivan pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

The soup glistened. The meat looked so real. So chewy, tangible, tasty. Ivan couldn't remember the last time he'd had a vegetable. If the baozi buns were any indication, the rest of Yao's mother's cooking ought to be delicious, too.

Ivan could cook, but not like this.

"Well, tuck in, boys," Yao's mother urged. She then looked at Ivan, eyebrows knitting in, perhaps concern? "You look so skinny, Ivan! Eat! Eat!" She shoved a huge hunk of beef in Ivan's direction. "Eat, boy! You so skinny!"

"Don't worry, she's always like this," Yao whispered. Ivan rolled his eyes.

"Thank-you very much, ma'am." Ivan nodded. He fumbled with the chopsticks for a few seconds, but it wasn't all bad. Yao took Ivan's hand into his own and corrected Ivan's finger position. Ivan kind of wished Yao could hold his hand forever.

They ate. Ivan was happy, simply happy that this was the first decent meal he'd had in practically forever.

Yao's mother kept shoving food into everyone's faces. Yao was picking up a piece of taro with his chopsticks. The two talked back and forth about their day, about school, about work, about Mahjong. Ivan listened, but he didn't feel left out.

Ivan liked to listen. He liked it when people weren't fighting like this. He liked it when they got along, when they could look each other in the eye with something other than pure hate and resentment. Ivan liked it when people looked each other in the eye with love. With genuine care and affection.

For once, Ivan felt like he was part of a family. Sometimes, he supposed, water was actually thicker than blood.


	6. Heaven, Hell and all Which is in Between

**Chapter 6: Heaven, Hell, and all Which is in Between**

* * *

Fear and shame, resentment but also self-blame. Ivan's sleepover with Yao had been so perfect and pleasant, yet now it seemed so far away. The memory somehow grew hazier by the day, as if years had passed rather than weeks. He remembered bed being warm. He remembered how good Yao's room smelled: like incense and spice and everything nice. For once he had been part of a family, where his biggest problem was Yao's mother forcing him to eat more because to her he looked like a skeleton. She wasn't wrong, though.

For now, Ivan sat in his little room situated in the attic, and he touched his left eye. It was sore. It pulsed and stung. As his nail grazed his swollen eyelids, Ivan winced. Come on; come on! When would school start again? Only three days into winter break, and Ivan felt royally screwed by the universe.

Three days Ivan had had to endure this. He was forced to endure the fact that he'd grown scared of his own home. School was a haven, really. It had been Ivan's salvation until now. School was like a holy ghost, an angelic being which whisked Ivan away from his home and into a building over a mile away from his hungover-ass parents. It was over a mile away from his parents who drank, his house which smelled like cigarettes and piss, and his empty kitchen cupboards.

Without Yao's generous gift of baozi buns, Ivan found himself completely and utterly lost. He'd had only one meal within these past three days. It had been a packet of plain pasta.

Without Yao, Ivan was lost.

Ivan felt so hungry that, horrifically, for only a brief moment, Ivan had considered getting a few hundred calories in from a couple bottles of beer. Ivan snapped himself out of that, though. He'd heard from somewhere - he was even unsure of the truth behind such an assertion, yet he clung onto it harder than life itself - that alcoholism had a genetic component. Both - say it with him - both his parents were alcoholics. What chance did Ivan stand against the demon drink, then? What sort of fucked up genetics did he inherit? What was his risk of falling prey to beer and whisky and wine?

Ivan realized that perhaps he was being a little ridiculous, that perhaps it was a little silly to assume that a single sip of a strawberry margarita would turn him into a raging alcoholic who snorted cocaine and did heroin on the side, but Ivan took no chances in this regard. He knew what drugs and alcohol did to people. He knew the lives that could be ruined. He knew that he wouldn't just ruin his own life, but the lives of all those he cared about.

Horror. Just horror. The mere thought of possibly becoming an alcoholic made Ivan sick to his core. It made him want to vomit harder than his father on a Sunday morning. No, no alcohol for Ivan. Ivan would, gladly, rather die than touch the demon drink. He thought so, anyway.

Then, the guilt came. He had essentially ghosted Yao. Within these past three days, Ivan had made no attempt to contact him. No text messages, no house visits, not even a peep had come from Ivan. Yao couldn't see him like this, though. There was just no way in hell. Ivan cowered in the back of his room. He sat on his mattress, curled his legs so that his thin thighs touched his chest, and rested the side of his head on his knees.

Yao couldn't see him like this. He just couldn't.

Ivan gingerly, tenderly, tentatively, touched his bruised left eye. He patted his fingers all over it. Perhaps if he messaged it enough it'd go away. It didn't.

Ivan attempted to compose himself. He sat, cross-legged, on his mattress. He rested his back securely against the wall. He took deep, long breaths, and he forced himself to think of the good in his life. He thought of Yao and his mother. He thought of Mochi, their spoiled little cat. He thought of all the things he had to live for, all the things he could do once he was old enough to just pack everything and leave. College applications; he'd started college applications. Scholarships, grants, loans, he didn't care if he'd have to pay it back later. Something, anything. It didn't matter if he was attending Harvard or that shitty, underfunded community college that was only a thirty minutes drive away from here. Being 50K in debt somehow sounded better than being stuck here for even a minute more.

Ivan forced through his head the thought of that pleasant, aloof smell in the air that lingered after a big rainstorm. He forced himself to think of bees and butterflies, four-leafed clovers and rainbows. He remembered somewhere, sometime, someone saying that after the rainstorm always came a rainbow. Life has so much good, Ivan! It's worth it! It's worth it! It's worth it!

He would come out the other side, stronger and kinder and better than ever. Ivan pictured a rock; he thought about how no matter what it endured, it still stood planted in the ground, ready for the next violent upheaval.

His life wasn't as bad as it could be, Ivan thought. Sure, it could have been better, Ivan said to himself, but it also could have been worse. He could have been homeless. He could have had a field full of failed crops and a family to feed. He could have been living in a war zone. He could have been dead. Ivan pinched himself to make sure that he was still alive. Yup, still alive.

Ivan gently wrapped his fingers around his throat. He found the big artery in his neck and felt his own pulse. He was still alive. He was still alive! No matter the hunger or abuse or cold or want, he was still alive! That was good enough, he supposed. He felt his ribs, then felt his pulse again. He was still alive; alive, he said!

A great, big calmness washed over Ivan. He took deep breaths and welcomed this feeling. Ivan was floating, but he was also underwater. Everything floated away from each other. Chairs, mattresses, lamps, bookshelves, they all floated to the air, to the stratosphere. It was as if he was floating in outer space, in the presence of whatever God or Buddha or primordial sheep that happened to be in charge of this universe.

He, as he sat - like a God on his pink lily throne of petals - was about to drift off to sleep, for once content and not angry at Mom and Dad for being so drunk and hurtful and deliberately aloof. It was close to an enlightenment, really. Ivan felt himself float off in a form of comforting detachment.

For a beautifully fleeting moment, everything was quiet. Then, everything grew loud.

A great, big bang sounded off downstairs, and suddenly, Ivan no longer floated in outer space. He opened his eyes, and in his state of shock he physically, he literally, fell off of his mattress. He had tangled himself in his awkward, long limps. He had crashed back down to earth, and by falling from the sky he descended further, into hellfire. For a moment, Ivan could have sworn that he felt hot, like something had set him on fire.

The screaming from downstairs began, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. Physics said that it was impossible to create a perpetual motion machine. As Ivan listened to his parents screeching like banshees, Ivan begged to differ. This arguing, this screaming, this toxic and volatile mixture of hatred was as constant as light being the speed limit of the universe. It was, indeed, perpetual.

Shrieks and wails, curses which belonged on ships that sailed. Someone had started to drunkenly laugh. Only a moment later there was a loud slap, a loud bang, a loud fall, a loud scream. Ivan wasn't sure who'd hit who. He didn't want to know. Ivan, again, for a moment as terrifying as it was brief, considered downing his sorrows in a bottle of beer. Ivan, once again, regained himself for just long enough to snap out of it.

Through tongue-biting misery and the pain of his nails digging into his palms - a perverse act of comfort - Ivan regained himself just long enough to push the temptation away, to realize that he had too much to live for to give it all away for a bottle of liquor. Everything else after this fleeting moment of clarity, however, came crashing down around him.

Stop, stop he said! He heard Mother and Father yell at each other downstairs. Curses and death threats flew out of their mouths like flies, like bullets. Every insult and every insult to injury hit Ivan. It hit him hard in the face. It smacked him just as hard as a hand which had been splayed out, prepared to roughly slap his drawn, withered cheek. Ivan pressed his hands to his ears. He gripped the sides of his head so tightly that it hurt as he gave out a pained cry of defeat.

The tears came, yet they wiped away so easily. With his sleeve, with the palms of his hands, with his thin and bruised fingers, Ivan smeared his tears into a translucent and unseen membrane all over his face, his neck, his hair. Ivan found himself to be a sopping mess. Something inside of Ivan had been provoked. Ivan thought for it to be a demon, or perhaps the rapture, but something for sure within him crumbled to pieces. Ivan fell to his mattress. He began shaking, trembling. No, it was the world that shook.

The sun had started to set, bathing the room in a peculiar red light. Ivan was bathed in red light, like a perverse baptism into a new, previously unknown world of panic, a world where Ivan could not do something so simple as to control his own body.

Ivan kicked around on his floor like an animal in distress. The shaking of the room grew more and more intense. Needles and pins skewered cleanly through his chest. The only thing which kept Ivan grounded to reality was the pain caused by his constant biting of his own tongue.

Everything hurt, yet everything felt numb. Ivan cried, which then devolved into hyperventilation. He began panting, heaving, gasping for air like a fish out of water. A certain specific, unknowable panic overtook him. Ivan's body felt out of his control, as if his soul had floated up and away and decided not to come back. Ivan felt his soul float to the ceiling, only to watch the body it'd come from lay on its side on the ground, dry-heaving only because there was no food in his stomach.

Ivan felt dizzy, then sick, then he couldn't breathe. The air had been knocked out of his lungs. Ivan was convinced that someone had taken a rolling pin and flattened his diaphragm. For sure, Ivan thought, had someone drained every drop of blood from every last cell in his body. Ivan's knees shook even though he wasn't standing.

His heart, it thumped in his chest so loud, so fast. The screams of his parents downstairs faded away to distant memory. That didn't matter now. The only thing that mattered now was the feeling of crushing anxiety and panic that overwhelmed every facet of Ivan's body. Was this what it felt like to die? he wondered. He blood was gone, and what remained was adrenaline. That was what coursed through Ivan's veins. It was what made his heart beat fast, made his palms and neck sweat, made his knees shake harder than a glass of water on a loudspeaker. Tears continued to trickle slowly down Ivan's face. They dripped over his cheeks, then made their way down his neck, into his shirt.

Ivan's face planted onto the wooden floor. His nose hurt as it supported the weight of Ivan's head. Ivan's body arched like a cat. His head was to the floor; his knees curled underneath his stomach; his back felt like someone was pulling it to the ceiling with a drawstring. Ivan felt sick and dizzy. His vision filled with strange-looking champagne bubbles. His hands tangled inside of his hair, and he was on the verge of tearing his hair out from the roots.

Time moved on, however, and the episode passed. Over the span of about ten minutes, the unhinged edge of terror wore off. Panic seemed to be as fleeting as Ivan's happiness, and ironically, the shouting of his Mom and Dad downstairs brought Ivan back from hell.

Ivan dried his tears again. This time, they did not come back. His lungs burned as they crept back to breathing normally again, but Ivan still sat, hunched over and barefoot on the floor. It was cold, yet Ivan felt hot, and he began stripping his sweater and jeans, until he was down to his t-shirt and shorts. He lied on his side on the mattress and curled up into a little ball. He was bewildered, really, by the events which had just transpired.

Vomit threatened to spill out of Ivan's throat, but he forced it down. The feeling of dizzy and nausea returned stronger than before. To calm himself, Ivan rubbed his legs against each other. He twisted and tangled his calves together and cracked the joints in his toes. He wiggled his fingers around, causing for a strange, unknowable sensation to ripple through his body. He had begun sweating.

Ivan collapsed on his back, his arms and legs splayed out like a starfish. He felt more like a jellyfish, though. He had no idea, no idea at all what had just happened. In this moment he felt so terribly weak and helpless, like a wounded animal on the side of the road. Ivan felt exposed somehow, but not because he'd stripped down to his t-shirt and shorts. He was just inherently vulnerable in this moment.

As his stomach growled and ached in the pain of hunger, Ivan's eyelids grew heavy. His body pulsed so violently that Ivan completely forgot about - or perhaps could now choose to ignore - the same pulsing sensation which radiated from his left eye.

This attack he had experienced on his being left him exhausted. Ivan fell asleep.

* * *

Ivan woke up to a silent house. It was nighttime now, and Ivan had no idea no long he'd slept. He only knew that when he looked outside, all he saw in the sky was black. He could not see any stars, nor could he see the moon. He only saw the outline of the big oak tree in his front yard, its untrimmed branches looming threateningly over his room. A thick layer of ice had caked on his windowsill, and the crooked windows where the sealant had failed allowed for snow to melt into Ivan's room. Green and black mold radiated off from the window, forming an ellipse around the window's moist wallpaper.

No screaming, no yells, no bottles being smashed on the counter. Ivan was hungry. He crept downstairs, hoping that somehow, someway something had magically appeared in the fridge or cupboards. As Ivan inspected his kitchen, he realized that he wasn't sure if his parents were asleep in their room or if they had gone out of the house in order to drink the sorrows of their own failed lives away.

Ivan continued to dig around the kitchen like a hungry raccoon. He was a hungry raccoon. He was famished. He was so hungry that he'd thought about eating the leather off his shoes. The thinness of his fingers scared him more than any boogeyman could.

He still found nothing. How could there be nothing? He'd searched every cabinet. He'd rummaged through every inch of the refrigerator and every nook and cranny of the pantry. Nothing still.

The frustration began to creep up Ivan's neck, but he could not be angry. He was too tired, too hungry, too hurt and alone to be angry. At any attempt he made to slam shut a cupboard's door, his arm failed him, and then he felt dizzy. He pressed his head against the wall in defeat. The chipping paint scraped at his nose, and his black eye continued to pulse in a dull pain.

Ivan found a cheap bottle of white wine. He never thought he'd be this torn. He was so hungry now, and it was the worst it'd ever been. It had always been bad, but never like this. His parents had been getting worse and worse over the past year, becoming increasingly steeped in their own alcoholism. They were practically shells of former people, stumbling around, yelling at things, at each other. Ivan thought his parents to be dead weights on society, really.

He should have felt bad for thinking that way. The guilt used to eat away at him, but now it didn't. His parents were hopeless. They couldn't change; they never would change. Ivan knew this. He'd known them for a long, long time. He'd always known. For as long as he could remember, even back then, years ago, when his parents gave the tiniest damn about his existence, he knew. It all came crumbling down until Ivan was practically a ghost in his own home, ignored and forgotten along with the groceries. Ivan's parents now only found him when they had something to be mad about, when they had a fight to pick.

Ivan remembered when the neglect had started, remembered that when he was around ten, his parents had gradually stopped remembering to pick him up from school. He remembered standing there for hours under the blistering early-summer sun, waiting for Mom and Dad to pick him up. A concerned teacher would every day stay after school, take Ivan inside, and give him a snack, and he remembered wondering why his Mom and Dad didn't sit down with him at the dinner table.

Ivan was so hungry that he was bordering delirium. His hands shook, and so did his legs because he was so hungry. His feet felt like they walked on jello. He wanted something, anything. A meal, a drink, a snack. He didn't care if it was expired, if it'd gone moldy, even; he just wanted something, anything to eat.

Ivan gripped the bottle of wine, struggling. He held back his own left hand with his right. Both of his arms shook as they fought with each other. Ivan wanted something other than water to fill his stomach. He wanted some calories, goddammit! He wanted for this feeling of dizzy and sick to just go away! Ivan considered whacking his head with the bottle so that he'd pass out and not have to feel hungry.

Tearing at his own hair, fighting against his own hand, Ivan felt himself schism in two for a moment. For only a brief moment, however, Yao came to his mind, and Ivan stopped. His rationality came back for a moment long enough to realize how much it would pain Yao if he saw Ivan like this.

Ivan walked out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and opened his front door. The front door's rubber stopper had frayed and torn over time, letting in the draft. Ivan winced in cold as he stuck his head outside, now reminded of the fact that he was only wearing a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of striped shorts.

He swung his arm back as far as it'd go, so much so that he almost dislocated his shoulder. His fingers gripped the bottle of wine like a pitcher and his ball. Ivan threw, then released his fingers, and the bottle went flying outside. It flew across the front yard. Ivan didn't know he had it in him to throw it all the way to the street. The bottle landed onto the road. A soft crash sent shock-waves through Ivan's spine, and in the distance he heard a startled cat's yelp.

Ivan began panting again, heaving, as if he'd just performed a crowning feat of athleticism. Ivan, this time, had it in him to slam the door shut, only to catch a glimpse of the pale, yellow liquid that bubbled from the bottle, along the road, and into the storm-drain.

He shut the front door and rushed back upstairs. Same-old, same-old as he shut the attic entrance and barricaded it with a bookshelf. Ivan did not sleep. Eventually, he heard the screen of the front door slam open, as well as the yelling of two distinct, familiar voices. They were arguing about who had thrown their bottle of white wine onto the street.

Mr. Braginsky's voice boomed; it echoed through the house. It demanded that Ivan come downstairs and explain the smashed bottle. From Ivan's point of view, he was doing both their livers a favor.

Ivan splayed out onto his mattress, arms stretched out like a starfish, wanting to fall asleep.

The door to the attic opened, followed by the creaking of its ladder, and Ivan lied there. The bookshelf he'd used to barricade his door slowly shifted to the left. Ivan's body went limp as he prepared to just sit there and take it. Ivan thought of Yao in that moment. He thought of Yao's nice-looking legs. He thought of Yao's soft, smooth skin, of his smile that was like sunshine, of his hair that he always tied into a neat ponytail. Ivan smiled as the bookshelf fully moved out of the way, as Mr. Braginsky's shadow loomed dangerously over Ivan. Ivan glanced at his mother as she observed tentatively, almost nervously, from her position atop the ladder.

Ivan's mother opened her mouth, about to say something, before shutting it again. She then closed her eyes, clenched her fingers around the railing, and looked away.

Mr. Braginsky's the bogeyman.


End file.
